


You still want me?

by cautionsignal



Category: Shameless - Fandom
Genre: Heavy Angst, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, M/M, Mexico, Mickey Milkovich Deserves Better, Mickey Milkovich Loves Ian Gallagher, Mickey deserves good things, Pining, Reunion Sex, South Side stings, The L, dock scene, self-deprecation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-04-05 06:59:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19043500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cautionsignal/pseuds/cautionsignal
Summary: “Mickey’s here for someone, holding a smoke, casual as anything, waiting. Like he always has.He just wants to see his Ian. His Ian.”———Or in which Mickey broke out of prison and is determined to fuck Ian out of his system—but when has that ever worked, anyway?





	1. Bit of a hurdle, don’t ya think?

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic!! I don’t exactly know how the story will be found, but I hope I get some kudos for this.
> 
> I love comments!
> 
> All mistakes are mine.
> 
> I just want to give my beautiful boy Mickey something he fucking deserves—is that too much to ask??

The air stings a lot, numbs out a lot or something - which really might help Mickey’s case right now, truly- but it’s the curling, grimy smoke n’ dirt feeling that Mickey misses down to his bones, hates in his core. _This_ is why he’s here.

And the South Side hurts like a bitch.

The houses, for one, had shook Mickey a little, seeing some he knows for fucking sure had burned down to ash and trash seconds after he’d been thrown into prison.

It’s been years. _Years_.

Everything moves so fast around here, but most of the South Side hustle leads towards something empty, and nothing had changed around the Milkovich house for decades. Nothing- _fuck_ \- nothing has ever really changed around here.

Mickey thinks he saw Frank Gallagher still swayin’ and vomiting outside Kev’s bar - it’s all so familiar that it physically pains him. He wanted to do something stupid at the time and scare Frank a little, hold his puke filled mouth against a wall with this FUCK hand, a gun in the other- just to..ask a stupid fucking question like. Something..

Mickey had shut that down, fast, but then he thinks of the bar again and-

 _God_ , Mickey was a pimp, but it was so damn long ago - he misses those days, almost. The Rub N’ Tug and the booze and the sofa business. He almost convinced himself to think of Svetlana, his fucking wife, the Russian whores, and, and- his kid, _Yevgeny_ and-

And, forcibly draws back from picking at that scab- he won’t be picking at it again, that’s for damn sure.

And. Mickey’s here for someone, holding a smoke, casual as anything, waiting. Like he always has.

If he wants to remember and clutch and grab and hold- just take anything, anything from this damned, horrible, feeling-fucked place—

He just wants to see his Ian. _His_ Ian.

It could fuel him through a lifetime in Mexico, that’s for sure. Because that’s what Mickey is now, a groveling, mistress of a fugitive, a madman who dug his way out of prison with a fucking spork and probably killed a few people just to have a congratulatory dick in his mouth.

He didn’t do half those things, but somehow he’d slipped out through the cracks of suffocating prison to forever be on the run. If it isn’t pride that overtakes him, it’s his ego stroked to full flame rearing up inside him.

So that’s where he messed up- he broke out ‘cuz he wanted hard sex and a broken heart. He wanted a firm chest to press back on, strong arms around his torso, big hands on his crotch.

He wanted ginger hair to tug, a perfect, sweet face to trace with his hands, and- _God_ , he wanted Ian. Any way he could have him.

And then he wanted to be free.

Mickey had given it all, in the past, now, just for a chance at seeing Ian again. Touching him. Taking care of him. And no, nobody ever did fucking ask. Ian certainly didn’t beg or anything.

But, he did anyway. (He often shows up where he isn’t wanted.)

Now, he wants to take something for himself.

Mickey’s hair curls against his neck, long and unkept under his hat. It’s a new look for him, all hobo-like, though a part of him cared enough to close shave a clean beard before he saw his ex. Ian seemed to be enthralled by him- yesterday- when Mickey’s fingers were touching the EMT jacket, their faces close and longing written blatantly clear in their eyes.

Longing for what, Mickey wouldn’t know.

Mickey supposes that Ian does still want him, even if it’s a small part now, maybe even cares for him in the way that you do when your sort of best friend goes to prison. Ian has a lot of love in him- a lot of passion; he’d go some lengths for the people he decides to keep close.

Mickey, selfish prick that he is, used that as leverage when he asked Ian to come to Mexico with him.

_You’re under my skin, man. The fuck can I do? Hm? Fuck can I do?_

The shore is close, boats rocking against the slap of the waves. The L rattles heavily overhead and his heart pounds, back against the wall, a cigarette pressed against his rough lips, rough lungs - waiting, touching. He’s unseeing the glimmer of the dark water, light folding on itself in streaks along a plain of moving black.

Breathing, only so much, _wheezing_ is a better word for it.

Why would he come?

Mickey thought he would. Maybe he wouldn’t.

Maybe he wouldn’t- he tended to leave. Loved to fuck it all up. Even sex- like back at the club back then, flaunting hotter guys on his arm, doing pornos, cheating-

_Shut the fuck up._

He was off his meds then, rebelling and pushing against every plea, making reckless decisions, willfully manic, hypersexual. He was _suffering_. It was the first time he broke up with Mickey, after taking his baby, after jerking guys off behind supermarkets, after pretending that he could unconsciously write off his disorder as the sole reason for his actions, after _everything_.

It wasn’t the first time Mickey thought to himself that he wouldn’t be enough. But it still hurt something terrible, and made Mickey think of Terry, and all the things he used to shout, and scream, and throw against the walls, belt his children with. It made Mickey regret a lot of things. Choices he’s made, things he’s done.

But Mickey never regretted loving Ian.

Tonight is just for a hard fuck. As long as Mickey is around, convenient, and in town, huh?

But Mickey is starved for affection from the only man he wants, the only man he loves, because Milkoviches ride or die, and they love hard. If Mickey is sure of anything, it is that he belongs in that family curse.

Mickey straightens at the sound of crunching gravel and the snap of a flip phone, stricken that he’s here, here, finally here.

He checks over the steps, breath hitching a little. Ian has just settled into place, back against a boat, a smoke in one hand, the phone shoved in his pocket, like he’s ready to leave at any second, flighty, reckless.

He takes a drag of his cigarette, the stick thin and faltering between his lips. There’s fire already spiking up in Mickey’s stomach. He’s still numb, unbelieving, rough from prison, fucking terrified, but he _wants_.

He’s ripped apart Ian’s life in the past, maybe, like what Ian keeps saying to him every time he leaves Mickey. Is he doing this again? Does he deserve this?

But Ian Gallagher is here now, late, stupidly, horribly late. But, here. Again.

Right now, it’s more than enough.


	2. A Lil’ Bit Desperate, Huh?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mickey doesn’t let more than a half a minute to pass before he’s climbing the steps, and Ian’s looks up before he’s even done. Heat curls as the fire jumps in this stomach, and that face is tense, but no longer like he wants to run away. 
> 
> At least not this second.”
> 
> ———
> 
> Or uhhh guess what? This is gallavich. Of course they have amazing reunion sex. And a shitload of deep fucking feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve always loved reading porny, angsty gallavich fics—with a plot!—and now I have the privilege of sharing what’s been in my notes for weeks now.
> 
> I’m not that great at writing smut- but hopefully it’s not too vague (cuz what would we want that? >:)) and full of feelings that make your chest hurt (like how Ian is feeling for leaving the love of his life (twice!!)).
> 
> I’m a bit salty about that one. A bit.
> 
> Again, all mistakes are mine.

Mickey doesn’t let more than a half a minute to pass before he’s climbing the steps, and Ian’s looks up before he’s even done. Heat curls as the fire jumps in this stomach, and that face is tense, but no longer like he wants to run away.

At least not this second.

“Knew you’d come,” Mickey says, loud. It breaks some space, roughens up his insides, and draws him in. His legs move fast, trapped in the thrill and sting of the night resting and dappling Ian’s face, the red hair so visible and the dark eyes and solemn mouth all just _there._ ForMickey.

Maybe just this one night.

“Knew you’d come,” Mickey says, smoother, huskier. Sexier.

Mickey decides that it’s for his taking. He might not deserve it, but all he’s done is take what he doesn’t deserve all his life, hasn’t he?

The L honks, blaringly, swiftly in the distance. “C’mere-,” Mickey’s hardly coherent.

Ian’s cigarette flicks to the side, rapidly, before he gasps into Mickey’s mouth, tongue hard against Mickey’s own. It’s a fucking collision- Ian— _god—_ Ian could kiss, he could kiss hard and long and deep, fingers digging into Mickey’s waist- Mickey’s hand on his and his cheek... The sounds between their mouths are _obscene_ \- Mickey’s hard a rock, _fuck_ , Ian’s finally pressed against him, finally, _finally_ licking into his mouth, grabbing the back of his head-

Ian’s hand is on his chest, pressing his mouth in a deeper angle for one long drag-

...before pushing them apart.

A beat or two passes, Mickey is drugged out and breathless, leaning a little to the side, wholly high on life and the promise of great sex in many positions - he smirks, eyes on the redhead.

“Fuck,” he bites out, sharp and rude into the air, dripping with sex, high and fucked out already. Ian tenses further to the tone, eyes growing darker and his eyebrows draw together.

“You think my life hasn’t moved on since you’ve been locked up, Mickey.”

Mickey is shaking his head even before Ian stops talking. “Nah man, I just thought that you’d be down for me since the whole reason I did time was for goin’ after the bitch who tried to ruin you.”

“I’m not- pissing away my life—“

But Mickey’s here now, here to have a good time, probably better than any number of the one night stands or fuck buddies Ian’s been doing, and he’s gone after tonight, so it shouldn’t matter.

It wouldn’t matter.

“Stop,” he hears himself drawl, clutching at Ian’s jacket, slipping his tongue into Ian’s mouth, grabbing him close and running a hand down his chest, fingers touching his face and up in his red hair, drawing Ian in to latch his mouth against Mickey’s.

Ian is so warm, so solid and real under his hands, and Mickey is melting into those strong arms and that heat before he’s pushed away again.

And, well, he’s kind of pissed now, dick fully hard, mouth wet and a little swollen.

Ian is pacing away, angry, glancing back at Mickey- “I have my shit together, Mickey!” His eyebrows are drawn together, and he’s visibly struggling with his next words.

“And I- and I have a _fucking_ \- boyfriend.”

Mickey wishes Ian could’ve sorted all this out on his own, before he decided to show up on a deserted dock, looking so beautiful and ready to fuck. Mickey wishes that those words didn’t twist that knife already placed in his gut, just a little bit more.

Well, Mickey’s a conman, and a fugitive, and a little side _boyfriend_ never scared him.

“Boyfriend?” He raises his eyebrows, licking his lips, and moving a little further away. “Okay.” He gives it a pause, and watches Ian’s face. He seems still, finally, hard eyes focused solely on Mickey’s face.

“What’chu doin’ here then?”

Mickey sees the blow land, watches Ian’s face get all harsh and like he’s about to cry, but his strides are purposeful and his lips are desperate on Mickey’s—

...and suddenly it feels like Mickey has won.

Ian’s hands are insistent and rough, manhandling him to the edge of the dock, pushing his jacket roughly off his shoulders, the wind whistling, the shore roaring, and all Mickey can feel is Ian everywhere at once.

Ian breaks the kiss, working his own shirt out of his pants, when did he take off his jacket again? and-

“Tell me goodbye.”

Mickey doesn’t know why he does it, but since he knows he’s getting sex, he just wants to make Ian mad. To get him back. Because, a boyfriend? Fuck. All Mickey’s had all this time are one night fucks and his fucking hand. He’s faithful, goddamit!

Faithful to what, he doesn’t know.

Ian’s face is still angry, but no longer tense, open, expressions twisting his features that make him seem like that the words hurt. His eyes, dark green and a little watery, glare at Mickey, before shoving him at the wooden railing of the dock, hard.

There’s a pause, and Mickey smirks, eyes half-lidded, with a shiny mouth and fuck me posture.

“ _What?_ ” There’s a drag in Mickey’s tone, and yeah, well, he doesn’t really tease, usually, usually it’s the other way around, but-

He smiles, sexy and crooked, and Ian shoves his shirt over his head in an instant, his red hair sticking up in haphazard directions.

Mickey nods to himself, reveling in the feeling of still having an effect over the other guy. He feels desired, at least, in a cheap sort of way, and that’s enough- and finds himself turning and pulling at this belt and pants.

Ian’s breath hitches harshly, his hands grabbing Mickey’s clothed ass, biting his shoulder. Then, the hands are gone, but the heat of his body is still close as Mickey hears Ian’s belt snap- the energy is frantic, and wooden railing is digging into his ribs.

The wind howls, but all Mickey feels is Ian. Surrounding him, his lips burning Mickey neck, doused by the hot wetness of his tongue, fingers mapping out the skin beneath his boxers, plunging completely underneath his waistband to grab his dick- and oh _god_ -

Mickey’s head drops back, baring his throat for Ian to suck harshly against, moaning as mutedly as he can manage, feeling Ian’s other hand brush back the long hair from the nape of his neck before more open mouth kisses are pressed against his sensitive neck.

“Mickey..” Ian pants against his pulse point, already sounding half out of his mind, fisting Mickey’s cock in his pants, grinding hard and dirty against his ass.

Mickey shoves down his pants, finally, snagging his boxers on the way, Ian’s hand jerking his cock while his own dick drags along Mickey’s crack-

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Ian moans when Mickey reaches back, and lines himself up with that fucking cock that he’s missed so much-

“No, no wait, wait,” Ian gasps, rubbing up against Mickey even as he draws back a little bit.

“What?” Mickey glances back to see Ian’s face, and he remembers suddenly why he wanted to face the shore when he is fucked, because, _fuck_ it’s _too much_ —he’s struck stupid, again, by how _beautiful_ Ian is...fuck, how did prison make him into _such_ a _pussy_? Mickey’s stomach drops, eyeing Ian’s gaze, heat simmering below the surface of his wide eyes and glistening wetness stuck in his dark eyelashes. He looks incredibly fucked out already, his mouth pink and bitten up, and then Mickey thinks that he’s maybe having second thoughts.

Ian can’t be having second thoughts, he _can’t_. He can’t deny the _only_ thing that’ll keep Mickey going in his self-imposed exile. He can’t take away the only thing Mickey has left—because he already took away his love and gave it to someone else, probably, and fuck, that _wretched_ boyfriend, Mickey’s heart aches with want to beat him up, the old Milkovich style.

Like he used to. But Mickey has no claim over Ian this time.

And Mickey waits, because he wants Ian to want this, he want Ian to always have a _choice_. So he stands silently, dread curling in his stomach, watching Ian’s dark gaze. They are stuck in time, Ian’s hand on Mickey’s dick, his cock dragging precum against his ass, and those stupid green eyes trained on Mickey’s face.

And then Ian’s lips crash against his, open and demanding, and draws back to bite out, “You lubed up?” even as he starts to push his cock further against his stretched rim.

“Lubed condom,” Mickey chokes out, relief drenched thickly in his voice, imprinting Ian’s face in his mind before he’s being pushed to turn back against the railing.

Mickey digs in his pocket to find the packet, slips it back to Ian, and braces himself on the ledge as he hears Ian roll it on. A saliva slicked finger prods around Mickey’s hole, not prepped, and then a cock is between his cheeks and he’s begging for it.

Ian sinks drastically slowly, all the way in. Mickey clenches his teeth, and it burns, a broken moan crawling up his throat as Ian lets Mickey adjust.

It’s no prep- and it reminds him so _painfully_ of the dugouts, shotgunning and wanting Ian’s mouth on his, hickies and bite marks, of the freezer in Kash N’ Grab, the mindless fighting, the scrape of his amateur beard against the coarse red of Ian’s happy trail—and _god_ , who knew that those difficult days were the easiest time of their relationship.

Mickey can’t freak out. Not yet. Not when pleasure and pain is mixed as one and he feels like yelling himself hoarse and cry and just keep Ian inside him and force him to _stay_ with him, _in_ him, but—

“Mickey.” Ian breaths into his ear, soft, almost stunned, tracing his nipple under his shirt with one hand, another hand pinching the base of his dick to stave off Mickey’s rapidly approaching orgasm-because of fucking course he knows Mickey’s body better then his own. “Mickey, how are you so- tight?”

“Haven’t had a good fuck in ages,” Mickey hisses, coming down from his high, and then that’s out there, and Mickey grimaces, rocking back to distract Ian from his needy tone and revealing words. “Fuck me, Gallagher.”

“Holy fuck,” Ian moans, and the distraction works because before Mickey can overthink his own words, Ian’s hips snap, driving balls deep in his ass.

“Fuckkkk...!”

Ian builds a steady rhythm, thrusting fast and dirty, sharp hipbones pounding against his ass, hand jerking Mickey’s cock while the other interlocks with Mickey’s on the wooden railing. It’s hard and rough, desperate moans bouncing off the broken ships, the wind howling, and everything is cold but the ball of pure fire heating up both bodies.

And it’s burning, red-hot, _feverish_ scrapes of sweat sliding on Mickey’s abdomen and back and chest as his shirt traps him in, Ian holds him in to the fierce heat. Then Ian’s fist is harsh against his cock, mouth panting against his skin, his cock driving against his prostate and _demolishing_ him from the inside-

Ian’s orgasm hits him stupidly quickly, and without so much of a warning or anything, Mickey feels Ian shudder brokenly against his neck. His name falls out of Ian’s blissed out lips as he moans, loud and rough as he rides out his climax.

Mickey moans with him, tears gathering in the corner of his eyes, his face upturned to implore the moon, his knees almost collapsing through the sensory overload. Mickey clutches at the wooden ledge as his body takes it all, and feels the cold air hit his cock as Ian encircles his torso instead.

“I need to—“ Ian croaks out against his against his neck, shuddering and pressing the fingers that were on Mickey’s cock harshly against the wet cooling against his stomach. “Jesus Christ..”

Mickey’s legs shake in spite of himself as Ian pulls out before he’s being jerked around and slammed against the same wooden ledge.

“Wha- _Ian_ ,” Mickey stutters, head falling back in surprise as Ian drops to his knees as swallows him down into the wet heat of his mouth like he’s _starved_. And—oh. Mickey could never describe the way his body quakes and shivers, feeling Ian’s hand shove his shirt up to reveal his stomach and hot sweat to the biting cold, the other gripping his asscheek, pulling Mickey’s dick further into his mouth.

Ian’s head bobs aggressively, sucking and licking at the head of Mickey’s cock before almost _violently_ deepthroating him, swallowing around his cock over and over. Mickey is out of his mind, fisting his FUCK hand in that messy red hair, tugging harshly to fuck Ian’s mouth, and Ian greedily takes it, whimpering brokenly around his cock.

Ian drives his head down further, his nose pressed against Mickey’s dark happy trail, tears gathering in his eyes as he stares up at him. The eyes are too much, too hot, the tears too painful, hands too hot and _desperate_ against his ass, holding him there—and Mickey thrusts hard a few times and spills down Ian’s throat. He watches through half blurry eyes and bites his lip as Ian sucks him clean of his cum.

He leans back, shuddering, against the ledge, lets Ian tuck him back into his boxers and pants, lets Ian stay there a moment, his face against Mickey’s now clothed thigh, before he gets up again. He watches, detached, as Ian puts on his shirt but doesn’t bother to pick up his EMT jacket in the dirt.

Mickey feels an odd twinge of relief, eyeing the jacket, before glancing back at Ian. He’s busying himself with another cigarette, and hands the joint over when he senses Mickey’s eyes on him.

Mickey misses Ian, deeply, _painfully_ , achingly- and simultaneously loves and hates the tender brush of Ian’s fingers against his own when he hands the joint back, his dark eyes intent and focused on Mickey’s.

He doesn’t know how he’s still breathing, but he knows he’s alive- his whole body thrums with life- _because_ \- because Ian is here. Ian came to meet Mickey, a fugitive who just broke out of prison, fucked him, sucked him, and he’s still here—and Mickey has to ask again, _why?_

Maybe the regret is setting in now. Maybe he’s thinking about his boyfriend. Or how he fucked up by leading Mickey on, because Mickey is led on. He shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t be thinking about Ian or sandals and tequila and sex by the beach.

And underneath all that, the resentment burns, because he hates himself for wanting this, _loathes_ the part of him that would be selfish enough to jeopardize Ian’s future. He’s made something of himself—Mickey- Mickey couldn’t offer anything.

He couldn’t offer anything but his stubborn Milkovich loyalty and a life of hiding- of running.

The knife in his gut is still there. And Mickey is still a fugitive.

Mickey came for one night. He came for a drug fix, one last hit before he quit, cold turkey. Mickey didn’t _ask_ for all of these feelings. Mickey especially shouldn’t be thinking about begging Ian to stay with him. To not leave like he did twice before.

It’s almost funny to think that Mickey didn’t apprehend these feelings—when has he ever really been able to resist Ian Gallagher?

Like pining away month after month in jail wasn’t a sign enough.

Ian eventually edges closer from where he was smoking a cigarette against the ledge while Mickey was internally freaking out. Instinctively, Mickey steps closer until their shoulders are pressed together, and he feels those eyes on him, senses the heat of another body and the slight scent of sex clinging to the air around them.

 _God_ , he’s so far gone, he can’t even control himself anymore. He can’t deny himself a chance to have Ian again, just for one night.

Who cares if he stays or goes tomorrow?

All Mickey can ask for is another round in the van, and detached from reality as Ian is, he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m wondering whether I should continue this? 
> 
> (Comments and kudos help, y’all!)


	3. You can’t forget little things, Gallagher.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He would ask himself why. He would pretend to ask the question, pretend to give a bullshit answer, make shit up, fuck himself up- he can’t..cant fucking bring himself to—not when he’s faced with Mickey. The Mickey that plagued his thoughts, the Mickey that enraptured his mind, that had deserved so much more than he got.”
> 
> ———
> 
> Or in which Ian can’t deal with a Mickey overload during round two. And he needs to fuck out his affection- like That will work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we getting Ian POV this chapter?? Omg I think so! The comments kept this story going, y’all. Keep that in mind.
> 
> I LOVED the support- please, enjoy some van sex (it’s a two parter, so you gotta wait for the next chapter for the whole thing) for all the trouble.

The van isn’t so much of a mess as the memories in it.

“First kiss van, eh?” Mickey casually ducks into the dark space, pulling a beer from the six pack he sees in the corner. He moves with ease, never looking back.

Mickey is oblivious to Ian’s turmoil—he doesn’t realize that he is driving him half out of his mind. And...he always has. That much he can admit, after all the things he let himself do to Mickey at the docks.

Ian knows he should’ve- just...gotten closure or something, fuck his ex out of his system if he had to—because he had to taste Mickey and feel Mickey one more time—but _fuck_. Fuck if Ian could ever quit Mickey, and he wanted to _stay_ , wanted to stay so bad in this surreal world where he...had no debt but to appease his heart.

Ian follows, sliding the door shut behind them. He watches as Mickey clicks on the van light, illuminating the posters on the wall and ceiling, taking measures gulps from his can.

The last time he was in this van was, well, when Mickey had kissed him for the first time and then had his buttcheek shot by Ned’s wife.

Ian remembers when he had kissed that scar once it had healed, traced it with is fingers, fucked Mickey hard and long, whispered mindless praises in his ear—he was so in love back then. Reverent. Worshipful.

And now? Well, he was supposed to love Trevor. His boyfriend. He was supposed to have been happy with Caleb before he had cheated. He was supposed to have gotten over Mickey soon after he’d broken up with him on his front porch.

Ian is supposed to do a lot of things. But now he wants to just...call hell with the hurt and the betrayal and his bipolar and-

Wasn’t he once supposed to keep Mickey safe? Wasn’t he supposed to have made sure Mickey was alright? Was he alright?

And _damn_ , how the hell did he even get out of prison?

“Yeah,” Ian says instead of asking his questions, a bit of a sad, painful smile quirking his lips before he settles against the opposite wall of van. Mickey is _here_ , and suddenly, Ian couldn’t stop breathing him in. The scent of cigarettes and deodorant and sweat is still here, the heat radiating off his skin is still here. He- he never fucking _forgot_. Those dark blue eyes, and Ian couldn’t, he- how did he— _how_?

Ian glances over at Mickey, his side profile sharp and carved in the van light. Mickey side eyes him as he studies his face, “Are you actually here?”

“If you need more confirmation than a dick in your mouth, I’ll gladly provide it, Gallagher,” Mickey drawls back, quick, like he’d anticipated it. There is a slight curl to the edge of his lips as he takes another swing of the beer.

Ian did have his dick in his mouth. Cum down his throat. Fist in his hair. Mickey’s. _MickeyMickeyMickeyMickey_ everywhere- above, under, around, God it feels so _right_.

He would ask himself why. He would pretend to ask the question, pretend to give a bullshit answer, make shit up, fuck himself up- he _can’t_..cant fucking bring himself to—not when he’s faced with Mickey. The Mickey that plagued his thoughts, the Mickey that enraptured his mind, that had deserved so much more than he got.

Mickey deserves so much better, and Ian thought—he fucking _thought_ , that even though he broke out of prison- Ian should stay away because all he ever did was hurt and _hurt_ him—but fuck, if he couldn’t... _stay away—_

Before he’s even thinking—Jesus, when did he ever think when he’s around Mickey fucking Milkovich?—Ian grabs his chin and pulls his favorite South Side thug to his lips, and fuck if that fire wasn’t still there...

Ian deepens the kiss wildly, his chest hurting. He mindlessly clutches at Mickey’s shirt, eyes squeezed shut, tongues smashing and mouth moving hard against Mickey’s.

He can’t be numb anymore. He needs to _feel_.

Ian shoves Mickey backwards, pushing him to the floor of the van, watching him slide the half full can back into its spot with the rest of the beers. Mickey doesn’t make a sound other than a tiny little huff, just watches Ian kneel back and grab at the hem of his shirt for the second time that night.

Then, he reaches up, hands covering Ian’s shaking hands, and a hundred tiny sparks shoot up his arms. “Let me,” Mickey mumbles in that perfect, soft way of his, words heavy and steeped, half-lidded eyes blue and strong on Ian’s face, and Ian wants to _cry,_ he’s so beautiful.

Mickey’s fingers dip under his shirt to press hard against his stomach—Ian inhales sharply, breath shallow as Mickey roughly pushes the shirt over his head, and cards his hands through Ian’s hair—it’s such a different Mickey from what Ian’s used to. This Mickey isn’t South Side rough, not anymore. He’s been through so much that there’s a hard sort of power that seems to pulsate under his skin.

Ian shrugs the shirt all the way off, one hand cupping Mickey’s cheek, pushes forward fast, slipping his tongue into his open mouth before collecting a gasp.

This Mickey...is pliant, too, maneuverable under his hands, lips melting and malleable as they sink heated kisses down his jaw. Ian sighs, neck arching, grinding down on Mickey’s groin, so gone, so fucking _gone_ for this, this, he couldn’t think clearly if he tried.

He needs Mickey’s shirt off. He needs it off and then suddenly it is, Ian’s hands yanking it over his head, pulling the beanie off with it and Mickey doesn’t seem to care that his hair splays out on the van floor as Ian pushes him down again. He stares defiantly up at him, eyes dark.

And then something burns at the back of Ian’s throat, and he can’t breathe, his own eyes slipping down to Mickeys chest. And he pauses, stupefied and thrown back, and guilt and awe and fucking _affection_ curls unwaveringly in his stomach.

Because he _forgot_...

“ _Fuck_ , Mickey..” Ian whimpers, the back of his eyes stinging, burning, hands trembling as he clutches repeatedly at Mickey’s sides.

“ _Stop_ , Gallagher,” Mickey says it quietly, not a command, just more of a push into reality.

But this isn’t reality. This isn’t. It can’t be.

Ian presses closer, touches his chest hard, two fingers above the messy ink. He closes his mouth gently over the words, tongue tracing the letters, and Mickey is clutching at his hair.

“Fucking _stop_.” Mickey stares at him, but tugs him closer, harshly, and Ian closes his eyes, sucking slightly at the misspelling, moving with Mickey as he arches with the movements of his mouth. The deep, burning affection in his head and chest and stomach rushes like strong fucking whiskey in his system. He can’t _breathe_ , it’s so hard to just do that, and when Mickey shoves him back from his chest again, Ian looks back up to his face with watery eyes.

Ian forgot how deep those scars ran.

But _God_ , he’s perfection. He’s so fucked up, around his sharp jaw and red mouth and his long hair is frizzy and sexy and his rough hands, fingers grabbing at Ian’s neck and welding their mouths together, sparks burning, tongues and teeth clashing, and Ian needs to taste everything new and old about him.

Because it’s _Mickey_ , and his body hasn’t been under Ian’s thighs, warm and solid, thick and comfortable, in years. Ian needs to make sure all of him is real.

Tonguing at the sweat on Mickey’s neck, slowly, draws a deep hum from him, and Ian collects those deep, throbbing sounds from his throat, and his hands press along Mickey’s soft skin and ribs.

He’s so responsive, too, like prison had actually opened him out a little, and Ian’s chest pangs again, his mouth dry as his nose presses against the curve of his- Mickey’s neck, his fingers reaching up to brush against the tattoo scarring, tentatively, and Mickey pushes him away again.

And that just—Ian can’t believe how he could’ve been so fucking _stupid_.

He moves higher, mouths hot kisses, printing his deep fucking feelings because he can’t fucking express over the column of Mickey’s beard-rough throat. Quiet little exhales leave both their lips, and he half expects a reprimand—but he knows it won’t come, not about this.

He can feel under his fingers and against his mouth how badly Mickey wants it, and he’s so fucking willing to give it, to give, give, _give_ like he’s had fuck all to do with him before.

Ian is aching. Everywhere.

So when Mickey slots their hips together, grabs at him until they are holding each other, skin to burning skin, Ian leaves a choked sob against his pulse point.

Mickey pauses, and then a hand strokes down over Ian’s hair, soft, tender and so fucking _loving_ that when Ian feels lips against his hair, he _cracks_.

“Fuckin’ missed you,” he whispers against warm skin.

Mickey clutches him tight as he flips them over, and now his narrowed blue fucking eyes are staring down at Ian.

“Gonna ride you, Ian.”

Ian, _Ian_ —he can’t think, brain short cutting, fucked up and really fucking gone for Mickey. Anything for Mickey. Anything.

He pushes his pants off, his boxers, and then his cock lies hard and curved against his stomach. Mickey is naked, on top of him again before he can comprehend it, and their cocks rub together for the first time since— _god_ knows how long ago-

“ _Jesus_ , Mick.” Ian arches off the van floor, gasping a soundless moan and Mickey’s hair frazzles in long strands against Ian’s forehead. His face is close, his eyes are squeezed shut, and Ian frames his face with his hands, just looking through hot, burning eyes.

“You gonna just look at me or are you gonna fuck me, bitch?”

And damn, that’s okay, too, because within one minute to the next, Ian rolls on the condom Mickey hands him, and Mickey sits back, hovering over his cock.

The van light is fire toned, and it lights up every ridge of Mickey’s abs, every cut line of his pecs. His tattoo. The line of his soft jaw...then right back down to his hard cock, leaking at the tip and it’s so fucking hot.

Ian is enthralled, and he’s so fucking grateful—that, that he could have him like this again. “Ride me, Milkovich,” he breathes.

A smirk finally curls at the edge of Mickey’s wicked lips, and that’s exactly what he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are the very things that fuel me! If you want me to finish the van porn- tell me what you liked and didn’t like about the chapter! Quote me your favorite lines!


	4. Choosing a necessity, Mickey.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ian can see so much fucking light, right in front of him, brighter than any fucking sun he knows, right fucking here in the van.”
> 
> ——————
> 
> Or in which Ian makes his choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t get over the fact that I’m actually writing a fanfic instead of just reading for once.
> 
> Comments really, really helped. Keep that in mind for my next fic!
> 
> All mistakes are mine.

Ian is tripped out, and a little scared, by how achingly fucked up he feels as Mickey lines up his cock to his ass and sinks down, drastically slowly, a low growl making its way past his parted lips.

“Holy fuck,” Ian chokes out, gripping at Mickey’s hips, and Mickey runs his hands up his abs and pecs, leaving a scalding hot trail of sparks in his wake, dark, sexy eyes intent on Ian’s tense face. His body rests heavily on Ian, his hole tight and firm around his cock, pressure everywhere, weight everywhere, burning everywhere, fucking _Mickey_ every-fucking-where.

“Been a while, huh?” The way he says it is a low, lilted drawl, raw and shaky at the very end, squeezing his eyes shut at the tremor.

Ian reaches up, wondrously, touching his damp neck, the wet, sweaty mess that is his dripping wavy hair. A light, expanding feeling fills Ian’s chest, and he rolls his hips up, the tiniest bit so Mickey is finally seated balls deep. The sound that leaves Mickey’s bitten up lips couldn’t even be classified as animal—it’s extraterrestrial and _gorgeous_ , and Ian’s tripping so fucking hard.

Ian nods, breathless, eyes fixed on Mickey, “Been a while,” he confirms, and he can’t rip away the deep blossom of _good_ fucking pain right up through his ribs. He can’t take away the hot, tight heat around his cock, and he presses at Mickey’s hip in impatience.

Mickey’s hips cant, shallow, testing the waters. Ian hums, hand sweeping down his thick body, his dusky, muted nipple—as fucking close to the scar as possible—and down his faint abs and over the head of his cock.

“Fuck you still got it, Gallagher,” Mickey groans out, mouth twisting into a snide grin.

“What you fuckin’ think?” Ian says hotly, half out of his mind, fighting a smile, failing, grinning madly up at Mickey.

Mickey retaliates when Ian’s thumb swipes across the head of his dick again with more sharp pressure, hissing a little, rocking back and forth in little tiny movements. He’s curving into Ian’s hands on his ass and then moving away—warm and alive and _there_ , rough, beautiful, with sweet whimpers escaping his lips—“Fuck me, _Ian_.”

It’s been so long. So fucking long since Ian had last touched Mickey like this, since he’d felt stripped bare and exposed down to every fucking nerve because he’d wanted to touch him so bad, hold him so tight.

And Mickey- _Mickey_ \- is here, taking Ian, building a rhythm, pumping his hips and thighs, Ian’s cock sliding in and out of his tight, throbbing hole, creating delicious friction. Ian knows when he brushes against that perfect, tight bundle of nerves when Mickey throws his head back with an aghast sounding exhale, then faint hums pass his parted lips as he rides into that spot harder.

“Oh fucking- just fucking like that! Fucking, fucking.. _just_ like that,” Ian couldn’t stop gasping, grasping harshly at the man above him, running a hand up and down that thick torso again and again, _reverently_ , desperately, feeling every quake and shiver in Mickey’s body, adding pressure and making imprints, freaked out and fucked out inside.

“So fucking good, Mickey,” and Ian moans out through clenched teeth, to say it quieter, and it’s private and soft as _fuck_.

It’s so wholly intimate, this whole riding ordeal, and Ian’s narrowed gaze is half watery, half full of that flame-toned light, breathing in the unsurpassable picture of Mickey falling apart hotly above him, fucked up and wanting and reckless above him.

Mickey throws his head back, lets out a guttural growl, rakes his nails down Ian’s chest, losing control, losing his mind- fuck, when had he ever just let go during sex like this? - _shaking_ and-

“G-gonna fuckin’ cum so hard,” Ian grinds out, hips jumping to meet Mickey as he jolts up and down on his cock, losing the rhythm, leaning up to bite wetly up his neck.

“Cum so hard up my ass it comes spewing outta my mouth, Firecrotch,” Mickey growls into his ear, crude and brashly himself, deep and human and real.

“That’s so fucking messed up,” and Ian startles a laugh out of Mickey, pressing his fingers against his back, holding Mickey tightly around his midsection. The pain is hard, now, his chest tight and wrapped, his tears caught thickly at the backs of his eyes, and he doesn’t bother trying to wipe the ones that have forced their way out down the sides of his cheeks.

Mickey pushes back, grinding down his cock, his FUCK U-UP fingers tweaking his nipples, pressing at his stomach, touching himself down to his groin.

“Ah, fuck,” Mickey’s hand is pumping his own cock, watching Ian’s face with sharp eyes, “Fucking gonna paint your pale ass whiter.”

“Do it,” Ian croons, smiling hotly up at Mickey, his balls tightening, his eyes squeezing shut, wanting this to be real and good, wanting this to be more than a fuck. Wanting good things, bad, sickness, health.

Wanting Mickey.

_Needing_ him—everything else be damned.

Mickey is coming, hot spurts painting Ian’s stomach, something close to a whine escaping his mouth, eyes shut, and—

Ian can see so much fucking _light_ , right in front of him, brighter than any fucking sun he knows, right fucking here in the van. He feels branded and taken, and really fucking desperate to get off.

“Don’t fucking stop,” he warns headily, fucking up into Mickey until he’s coming hard up into the condom, riding it out, hands on Mickey’s hands on his hips.

Mickey pulls out, gingerly, rolling the condom up and off, tossing it against a pile of useless shit. His boxers go on, then his shirt, and his beanie.

Ian watches, tucking himself back into his pants, feeling sedated as fuck. He uses an old shirt to slowly wipe Mickey’s come from his skin, settling back down and tossing the shirt away across the van.

“Got any fucking sustenance?”

“Wore you out, huh?” Mickey grins, “The beers not enough for you?”

A couple seconds later, a can of barbecue Pringles come sailing Ian’s way, landing on his naked stomach. “High quality shit,” he comments, cramming three at a time.

Mickey scoots over with his unfinished beer, sighs like he’s satisfied, presses his shoulder purposefully against Ian’s when he lies down, stealing a chip on his way.

It’s quiet for a long while, content, surreal, relaxed in a little fucking bubble where all is right, Ian is with Mickey, and life is good. The pain- oh the pain- is still there, but muted, and pushed to the back of Ian’s mind to force no interruptions to a new memory.

So when Mickey tosses an empty beer can aside, draws a blanket over his legs and asks, “You got somewhere you need to be?” Ian laughs and says, “It’s like 2 AM right now- if I did, I would have been there by now.”

“Don’t you?”

Ian’s breath stutters. “What?”

“Don’t you have someone to explain yourself to?” Mickey’s eyes, so open before, is hard against Ian’s stinging ones, even though a light smirk dances on his lips.

Ian has seen this before, but fuck, it’s been a while since Mickey has done this- this pushing away and salvaging dignity bullshit. He’d seen it at the back of Kash N’ Grab, at the dugouts, in the alley. He’d seen it and 15-year-old Ian had worked past it, pushed those walls until they’d crumbled, wrecked Mickey until he’d been stripped bare, and taken all the care that had been hidden within.

But it _isn’t_ bullshit, and Ian has since helped build back those walls again through his mistakes and his stupidity and his lies—

And _fuck_ , if that doesn’t bring reality crashing down on him.

“I- I don’t have anyone important to explain myself to,” Ian says quietly, his face resolute, his chest giving a pang against his ribs at the look in Mickey’s eyes. “Except- except you, Mickey. Got a lot of explaining to you—to do.”

Mickey stares at him, stares hard and long, scrutinising and judgemental, but Ian has no desire to escape. And then, surprisingly, his eyes go the tiniest bit soft, all on its own.

And Mickey hasn’t done that in a while either.

“Missed you, man,” he says, settling further into the folds of the threadbare blanket. He strokes a hand up Ian’s arm, and Ian touches that hand, laces their fingers together.

He doesn’t realise he’s doing it before he’s placed a lingering kiss to Mickey’s inked knuckles.

“Really fucking missed you, too, Mickey,” Ian whispers against their clasped hands, and Mickey looks at him, a lot broken, flooded with affection.

When Mickey settles into little spoon, Ian breathes him in, hugs him close, never fucking wanting to let him go, tearing up a little against the back of his neck.

He wakes up the next morning, holding the person he needs most in the world, above all his stupid fucking shit, and chooses to never let go.

———————————————————

_“This goodbye?”_

_Ian throws his bag through the window, clambering in after it. He turns to see Mickey’s shocked face transforming into a hint of a winning smile. “Let’s ride.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. The second part of the van porn, Ian losing his shit, and then finally realising that fuck, he can’t really live without something his so wholeheartedly needs.
> 
> It’s been a pleasure writing this. The porn, of course, but the emotional internal monologues, too. 
> 
> What’s next for these idiots? Well, the road trip, and then Ian crosses the border, settles with his bf, finds an EMT job, both of them maybe start a little business. Who knows?


End file.
